


constellations

by northerntrash



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Constellations, Crowley Created the Stars (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, M/M, Mythology References, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:06:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21934186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/northerntrash/pseuds/northerntrash
Summary: In which Aziraphale tells a story, and Crowley threatens to burn down the house.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 148
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019





	constellations

**Author's Note:**

> My Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019 entry for lifeistrash13. Your prompt included fluff, cuddling and stars, so I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> I wish you all a restful Christmas and a peaceful New Year, whoever and wherever you are.

“Bloody hell, it’s cold in here,” Crowley hissed, sticking a toe out from underneath the blankets that were unceremoniously heaped over him. “Is the heating on?”

Aziraphale shot him a look from the armchair. Their cottage in the middle of nowhere had never, to the best of his knowledge, had heating. Aziraphale did in fact only have the vaguest understanding of what human heating systems were, or how they worked. For most of his time on this planet he hadn’t had to worry too much about it, and then once they were invented the angel had never found much of a use for them. Rooms always warmed themselves up to the ideal temperature out of gratitude for Aziraphale’s presence in them. It was one of the perks of being a divine spirit made of celestial joy, probably.

Unfortunately, Aziraphale’s idea of warm did not quite match up to that of Crowley’s. What was a pleasant enough room temperature for the angel meant chilly for the demon, and because Crowley was the way he was, that meant completely unacceptable. 

“I may die,” Crowley told him from underneath the blankets. “You will return one day from making tea to find a snake-icicle under these blankets, and then you will be sorry.”

“Ooh, speaking of,” Aziraphale said, reaching for the cup left balanced on the arm of his chair. It had been several hours since he had made it, and he had forgotten it (like he always did, if you were to listen to Crowley's monologues on the matter). Now it was cold, and he pulled a face, before passing it over to Crowley, bundled on the sofa, with a hopeful smile.

“Oh, fine,” Crowley said. Two pale arms appeared from the blankets, and he took the cup with both hands. It took a moment, but steam rose from the untouched surface as the hellfire he had pushed to his skin heated the tea back to ideal temperature. Crowley took a petulant sip from it before passing it back to Aziraphale, even though he didn’t really like tea and was only doing it so Aziraphale would wrinkle his nose at him.

“If you want a hot drink of your own, just say,” Aziraphale told him petulantly. “And I’ll go and make you one of those ridiculous coffees that you like. With more sugar and cream than actual coffee in it, you heathen.”

“S’tastier that way,” Crowley told him, ducking back under the blankets.

The room probably _was_ a little chilly, Aziraphale thought, absentmindedly, and almost immediately the temperature jumped up a couple of degrees to please him. Crowley made an appreciative sound from underneath the blankets.

“Ssss’not nice,” Crowley mumbled. “Hate the winter. One day I actually will be a snake-icicle. A snicicle, Aziraphale. Will you mourn me when I’m gone?”

“I suppose so. Without you I would have to drink a lot of cold tea.”

Outside the temperature had not crept into the positives in some days. A faint gimmer of ice patterned the grass and leaves even at midday, and though there had been no snow yet, the threat of it was in the air. The sky today was open and wide and blue, meaning that the temperature would drop down far lower overnight. No doubt Crowley would hiss his disapproval as the darkness fell, and if it got bad enough would turn himself into his favourite winter form, a pocket-sized snake that could drape around Aziraphale’s neck, underneath his collar, and snooze in the warmth of his skin whilst Aziraphale read by candlelight.

By contrast, the angel did like the winter, very much so. It was sad and beautiful and he loved the way that he could see for miles around in the cold morning air, no leaves on the trees to obscure his view. There was no better season for seeing Her creation, in his opinion, and he loved the quiet nights, the long dark mornings that he could spend bundled up in bed or in his armchair. He even liked the cold, the way it made his nose and the tips of his ears tingle, the blood in this human form flushing against his skin to try and keep him warm, the satisfaction of coming home and getting warm again.

Crowley felt very differently about it.

The demon was a nightmare in the winter, sulking and snapping and hiding under blankets for days at a time, refusing to leave the house. Sometimes he went snake and wouldn’t come back until Aziraphale coaxed him, although mulled wine was always guaranteed to get him back into his regular form. But Aziraphale couldn’t say he really minded all that much. He had never been able to experience a full winter with Crowley before the apocalypse-that-wasn’t, and he was rather enjoying just being able to be together, finally, without fear of reprisal.

Or, you know, without major fears, at any rate.

“Are you going to let me into your fortress?” Aziraphale asked, politely, getting up from his armchair. There was the sound of vague grumbling from underneath the blankets (honestly, Aziraphale wasn’t really sure where they had all come from, he certainly did not remember there being _this_ many red and black striped blankets when they moved in here. He would have definitely laughed at Crowley for having his blankets coordinate with his wardrobe when the snake was in a better mood, too).

He poked at the lump on the sofa when no further movement was detected, and with some reluctance it shifted, making space on the sofa for Aziraphale to sit. He peeked under the blankets, seeing Crowley’s legs and feet, wrapped in expensive black cashmere pyjamas and matching slippers. He grabbed at them, pulling the demon’s feet into his lap and tugging the blanket over the both of them.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Aziraphale told him, with all the love in the world, as he opened his volume of poetry and found his place again.

“You’re ridiculous,” Crowley muttered back.

“Yes, very good. Very mature.”

Crowley ignored him, wriggling closer under the blankets, tucking his legs more firmly around Aziraphale. “You’re very warm,” he told the angel, now almost prone on the sofa. His hand found Aziraphale’s.

“I’m glad.” The angel was trying very hard to still read his book without smiling too much.

“But still ridiculous.”

“Of course, darling.”

Crowley was quiet for quite some time after that, and Aziraphale wondered if he had drifted to sleep, as he so often did when he cocooned himself somewhere. He rather hoped he had: Crowley was rather sweet when he woke up from a nap, disorientated and trying hard to pretend that he hadn’t been sleeping at all. But then his hand squeezed Aziraphale’s gently. Outside the night was slowly creeping in, the sun low on the horizon, casting a soft peach light on the countryside around them. One of Aziraphale’s favourite things about their cottage, other than the fact that it was theirs, was that there was not a single house in sight when you stood outside, not in any direction. He hadn’t felt this alone and safe for centuries, not since the world was a much emptier place.

“You know, it is going to be a beautiful night, my love.”

Crowley’s eyes and nose appeared over the edge of the blanket. “Absolutely not.”

“It’ll be lovely.”

“Not a chance.”

“I’ll make you a hot water bottle.”

Crowley glared at him, evidently not swayed. “Bargain harder.”

“Mulled wine?”

“Hmm.”

“I’ll hold your hand the whole time?” Aziraphale offered, but still Crowley did not seem convinced. “And I love you?”

Crowley groaned. “Oh, if we must. But for the love of – well, for the love of hell, I don’t understand why you always want to go outside in the middle of the bloody night.”

The demon had started shivering again now he had emerged, and he glared around the room as if it had personally offended him.

“I would burn this entire house to the ground if it meant I could be warm again,” Crowley muttered. “I mean it. Nothing but ashes and my satisfaction left. Hell on the insurance premium, but totally worth it.”

“Do we have insurance?”

“Well, no, of course not. The basic elements know better than to mess with this house.”

“That is optimistic and deeply concerning. I wish I had thought to get fire insurance on the bookshop.”

Crowley snorted. “Would have been quite confusing for the insurance inspectors if you had filed a claimed before Adam rebuilt the whole thing.”

Aziraphale sighed, and put his book down, sliding his hands around Crowley’s feet and slowly rubbing them. The demon went immediately boneless, flopping.

“I really would rather you didn’t burn our home down though, darling.” Aziraphale remarked. “Adam was very generous with the shop, but I’m not entirely convinced he would reset everything here if you just did it on a whim because you were a bit chilly.”

“Totally worth it.” Crowley glanced at him, and must have seen something in his face. “Obviously I’m joking, angel. You know I never would do that.”

“I hope so.”

“Hey,” Crowley said, sitting up a little. “I mean it. This is our home, angel. I’m just joking.”

It was their home, that was the thing. They had made it back to London after everything that went down in Tadfield, and had stood on the pavement in the early morning light, waiting for the sun to rise and the next day to start, unwilling to do anything until they were certain that another day would actually happen, to prove to themselves that they really had managed to avert the Apocalypse. And as the sun came up they had sagged against each other, suddenly bone deep tired. Crowley’s apartment had been closer, and so they had gone there, and the two of them had gone through a surprisingly human routine. Showers, to get rid of the dirt and the smell of smoke, even though both of them could have miracled it away: soft clothes from Crowley’s drawers to replace their own (again, even though they could have fixed their own easily with a click of their fingers). But there was something about the process, the slow movements, the warmth of the water against bare skin that made them feel a little more real again.

Aziraphale hadn’t remarked on the fact that Crowley apparently just happened to have a drawer full of soft, pale blue pyjamas that were definitely too big to fit the demon.

Crowley had been pacing the floor when Aziraphale had come out of the bathroom. The lights were low, and the shadows under his eyes were deep. Aziraphale had really meant to go, to go back and see what was left of his bookshelf, but when he glanced at the door there was something aching and lonely that flickered through Crowley’s eyes.

“Can I stay?” he’d asked instead, and the bare relief he got in return cast out any lingering doubt that had remained in his heart about what direction they were heading in, about what all these centuries had been building to. They had curled up in Crowley’s seldom used bed, starting out on their backs, staring at the ceiling. But after a moment one of them had moved, and now he wasn’t even sure who had initiated it, but their fingers were touching, and then entwining, and soon they had been caught up in each other’s arms, both of them shaking as they realised the thousand ways that all of that could have gone, how easily everything could have ended.

The next day they had gone to the bookshop, found it repaired, and both of them had tried to restart their normal lives, go back to everything that they had been before this. But it hadn’t stuck. He wasn’t sure what it was – whether it was how different they felt after it all, whether Adam had changed them in an irrevocable way, but the city was too loud, the taste of the air unpleasant in Aziraphale's mouth in a way it had never been before. In just a handful of weeks, they had packed up, left the city in the Bentley, and had vanished into the countryside.

They didn’t have a plan in mind. They just drove, going from town to village, staying in small hotels and bed and breakfasts, sleeping every night. In the three months they drove, they slept more than they had done in the previous century, wrapped around each other, as if both of them were afraid that they might wake up and find the other one gone. They walked through orchards, went to local museums, and just drove, finding small glades and quiet lakes and mountain roads that made Aziraphale close his eyes in fear. And then one day they had found this place. It was just another morning, and they had taken the wrong turn, going down what turned out to be a long dead-end, leading to this cottage.

There had been a ‘For Sale’ sign in front of it, and though Aziraphale hadn’t paid all that much attention to it, Crowley pulled up the car, staring hard at it. The morning light had been catching the window panes, and creeping wisteria covered the garden walls.

“Do you want to look inside?” he had asked, and Crowley had nodded, hesitantly.

It had been a little small, a little run down. The floorboards creaked underfoot and many of the walls were just whitewashed stone. The kitchen had scarred wooden countertops and a stone floor, and from the living room windows you could see for miles around. Upstairs, just one bedroom and a bathroom, and a strange room, long and narrow, that ran the length of the house. Crowley’s eyes had been full of longing that he didn’t know how to express.

“Have you ever thought about buying a place like this?” Aziraphale had asked him. “The two of us together, I mean. Retirement. Being the local village weirdos.”

“Would you?” Crowley had asked him, taking his sunglasses off, his eyes vulnerable and skittish. “With me?”

They closed on the place a few weeks later. The narrow room was filled with bookshelves for Aziraphale to fill, and the garden gained a greenhouse for Crowley. The bathroom was refurbished to Crowley’s exacting standards, with a stand alone shower and a frankly ludicrous bathtub, easily big enough for two. They both had storage lockers full of furniture and ornaments collected over centuries, but neither of them wanted to put their own things in this house, bar a couple of particularly precious items. Instead, they had found everything themselves, their own things, the two of them together.

This house was their home, more than any other place Aziraphale had ever lived. This was the place that they had chosen together, the place for them, with no outside influence or requirements.

“Do you want me to light the fire instead of the house?” Aziraphale asked him with a smile, nodding at the logs laid in the open fireplace.

“Mmm,” Crowley hummed. One hand emerged from the blankets, and with a click of his fingers the logs burst into flame, lighting the darkening room and filling the space with a sudden warmth.

Aziraphale sighed. “If you could have done that, why did you not do it hours ago?”

“Didn’t think about it.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “You are a most beloved idiot.”

“Your idiot?”

“Absolutely.”

Crowley actually did doze off for a bit then, his legs twitching gently now and again as he dreamed. Aziraphale contemplated doing the same, just letting his eyes slide shut and the warmth envelop him, slipping into the bliss of unconsciousness. He got through a few more pages of his book before he did exactly that.

It was so strange that they were able to do this now, lean against each other without concern about who might see. Ever since Adam neither of them had been sent any sort of communication from their respective sides, much to their gratification. It seemed that their role in the not-Apocalypse and the stunt with the holy water, hell fire and body swapping had been enough to convince both teams that the two of them were truly rogue agents, cut adrift, terrifying enough in their own acquired abilities not to be tackled.

It might have made Aziraphale feel lonely, in another life. He had only ever existed as a part of a collective: a soldier in an army, a bee in a hive, a cog in an endless, divine machine far beyond his understanding. He had always been surrounded, from the moment he had first opened his eyes and seen the spiralling constellations of Her creation all around him, surrounded by other angels and their divine power and their many eyes, always watching. He had never truly felt like he had space to breathe until he had been posted on earth – he supposed that was why he had loved it, from those first moments stood on the walls of the Garden, watching the sands of an forming world shift around him. But even then he had been connected to the hub, contacted regularly by his superiors, always aware that there was some other plan and wider agenda at play around him.

For Crowley, it had been different. Aziraphale knew that, in the instinctive way that they knew the deepest, unspoken parts of each other. Crowley had been made much earlier than Aziraphale, when the ranks of angels had been disparate and without true organisation. He had been making stars and constellations through timeless aeons before Aziraphale's creation, without being a part of any wider unit or greater plan – or at least, not any that Crowley had ever known about. Often Aziraphale had wondered whether those stars he had seen when he had first opened his eyes had been made with the gentle fingertips of Crowley’s angel form, burning endlessly in the darkness. Many of those early angels had been involved in the Fall, and for a long time afterwards there had been much speculation around those early years of independence, and whether they had taught so many of them the traits that had led them to rebel.

Aziraphale didn’t know whether there was any truth in that, not really. It didn’t matter, he supposed.

When Crowley had fallen, he had joined his own ranks, although they kept things looser and freer than the Heavenly Host. Of course, he had still been obliged to check in, to report his successes and failures back to his superiors, but it had never seemed quite as oppressive. Perhaps it was a geographic thing. Aziraphale’s bosses were upstairs, Crowley’s were downstairs – it was easy enough to look down, far more awkward to be constantly craning your neck upwards.

That was why Crowley had always been so much more willing to push the rules, to cross the lines drawn between them by hands far more important than their own.

But even though Aziraphale had always felt contained, always surrounded, he did not feel as lost and adrift as he had thought he might now that the two of them were their own side. Instead, it felt tremendously freeing, like a weight that he had not realised he bore had been lifted from her shoulders. And he loved Crowley, he knew that, had known that far longer than he had been willing to admit, but he had not known that it was enough. He had not realised just how deeply he had loved him until they had stood there at the end of the world with their hands clasped together, knowing that they only way they could face the death of everything was together.

The only way Aziraphale would ever have managed to separate himself from the Heavenly Host, the only reason he would ever have had to do so, was Crowley.

He slipped asleep quickly, slumping over, and his mind was full of stars, stars that all told stories and looked like the glow he saw when he was facing Crowley and closed his eyes.

He woke an indeterminate amount of time late, half slumped over, shoulders aching from the strange angle. The fire had burnt low, and it was fully dark outside, probably the middle of the night if the faint glow of the moon and its position in the sky was any indication. The only light in the room now came from the gentle golden lights on the small Christmas tree in the corner, a concession to modern practise that Aziraphale had insisted on, because he rather liked how cheery they looked. He had always been a fan of things that looked jolly.

There was a warm hand resting on his head, he realised blurrily. He turned, trying to stretch. Crowley was watching him, his eyes golden too in the tree lights, smiling just a little, the corners of his eyes crinkled, full of warmth and love.

“Good nap?” Crowley whispered. “Your shoulders are going to hurt.”

“Mmm,” Aziraphale managed, but luckily the demon seemed to understand him.

“I’ll give them a rub later for you, how about that?”

“Don’t make any promises,” Aziraphale said with a sleepy smile. “You might feel differently after you sit in the garden with me.”

“Oh bollocks,” the demon said, his head flopping back, exposing the long line of his pale throat. Aziraphale reached, stretching awkwardly, just to press a kiss against it.

“Come on, you old demon,” he said. “Let’s wrap you up in blankets and get you outside.”

Protesting the whole time, Aziraphale bundled Crowley up, dragging him out the back door into the garden. Down the length of the lawn they went, through the frost-tipped grass, no lights to guide them, until they reached the small hillock at the end of the garden. Laying out blankets on the ground, they flopped down, nothing but the two of them and the vast expanse of the sky above them, their breath pooling in the cold air in front of them. Aziraphale had not realised how much he missed the stars until they moved here – you could never really see them in London, not the full expanse of them, unadulterated by pollution and smog.

“Do we have to stay out here long?” Crowley said, wriggling around on the grass, trying to get comfortable. “You remember what I said about a snicicle, right?”

“Hush, you have enough blankets to keep an army warm.”

Crowley scowled. “I just don’t understand what you find so fascinating about sitting out here in the dark. There is nothing to do.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes fondly. “I like looking at the stars, and remembering the tales that people have told of them, and the lives that I have lived before now.”

“But why do I have to suffer?”

Aziraphale took his hand, and gently stroked his fingers across Crowley’s palm in that slow and soothing way that always distracted Crowley a little, made him smile in that careless way that crinkled the corners of his eyes. He wore his sunglasses less and less the more time they spent in the cottage, finally settled and comfortable enough in their own home to show his eyes more willingly, and Aziraphale was delighted with the change. Though Crowley had always been a little self-conscious about his eyes, Aziraphale had never seen anything wrong with them – in fact, if anything, he had always liked the look of them, their warm colour and the way they never fixed on Aziraphale for too long. Angels had a way of staring, intense and strange, creatures that were used to having far more eyes in their true form. It was why you could always spot the ones on earth that were not used to it – they always tried to hold eye contact to the point that humans would find disconcerting. Perhaps Aziraphale had been on earth too long, because these days he found it strange, too.

But Crowley didn’t stare, his eyes didn’t linger. They flitted from place to place, always warm when Aziraphale caught his glance with his own, but never leaving him feeling awkward or uncomfortable, no matter how on edge the angel was. Even now, without the sunglasses, Crowley never looked more than Aziraphale could manage, and in turn Aziraphale loved being able to see these subtle shifts in Crowley’s expression, the moments of warmth and joy that had always been hidden in the past, the gentleness in the creases around his eyes and the deep truth of his feeling that told Aziraphale so much about the demon.

“Because there is nothing I enjoy doing that I don’t enjoy doing more when I am with you.”

A momentary silence, as one demon tried to regain his wits, hoping that the dark was enough to hide the redness in his cheeks. “Tell me one of the ssssstories,” Crowley demanded, after a minute.

“Oh darling, you only hiss when you’re really sulking,” Aziraphale said, trying not to laugh even as Crowley’s head flopped against his thigh, half-sprawled across the angel’s lap in an impressive show of petulance even by Crowley’s standards.

“Oh, alright,” the angel said, moving around a little to get comfortable. He tucked the blankets more firmly around Crowley’s body, and the demon made a little appreciative murmur in response.

“You remember ancient Greece?” he said, eventually.

“How could I ever forget?” Crowley replied. The peaceful sea, the warmth that sank into your bones, the gleaming white of the marble columns, everywhere he looked. He hadn’t liked ancient Greece, particularly. Everything was very bright, and open, and the sunlight had hurt his eyes after a while – sure, it had been fine in the shady corners of the agora, but on the whole he had been much happier when the had moved across to Rome, which was a city built on temptation and dark deeds.

But Aziraphale had loved Greece. Everything about it, too, not just the people or the clothes or the climate or the culture – all of it. If Rome had been made for Crowley, Athens had been made for Aziraphale.

“You looked good with a tan,” Crowley told him, which was a poor substitution for what he was really trying to say, which was ‘it was a blessing to watch you full of so much joy’.

“Well, I’m going to tell you a story that a man told me on the slopes of Mount Pelion, when I went looking for the centaurs.”

“Did you find any?”

“Hush, that’s not the point of this story. I mean, yes, I did, but that is far too long a tale to tell now. This is the story of the Teumessian fox, a giant fox that was blessed by the gods and destined never to be caught.”

“Lucky fox.”

“It was said that it was sent by the gods, possibly by Dionysus, to hunt down the children of Thebes as a punishment for some crime the city had committed. Can't remember what right now, probably something to do with the royal family, everything was to do with the Theban royal family in those days”

“Didn’t Thebes have enough bad luck with all that Oedipus stuff?”

“You would have thought, wouldn’t you? But you remember all those ancient Greek gods, they knew how to hold a grudge.”

Crowley sighed, wistfully. “I liked them, they held the best parties.”

Aziraphale pulled a face. “Of course that would be the part that you remember. Anyway, the Teumessian fox roamed the countryside around the city, waiting for the children to leave the safety of the walls to play or to help their parents in the fields, and when they did he would snatch them away, one at a time.”

“Spooky,” Crowley remarked glibly. “I do like foxes.”

“Of course you do, they’re sneaky with red hair and you’re a narcissist.”

Crowley pulled a face, looking for a moment like he was going to protest before reality caught up with him and he remembered that it was entirely accurate.

“Go on,” he told the angel as magnanimously as he could, given that he was half-draped over Aziraphale’s lap.

“Creon, the King of Thebes at the time, summoned the greatest hero that the city had to the palace. This was Amphitryon, a warrior and general, who was originally from Tiryns in the eastern part of the Peloponnese-“

“I don’t need the geography, love.”

“Oh, right, yes. Well anyway, he was in Thebes because of some typical ancient Greek issue – I think he accidentally killed his father in law? I can’t really remember that part now. There was some sort of task he had to do for his wife to make up for it, I think, and Creon told him that he would help him if Amphitryon got rid of this fox.”

“Poor father-in-law.” Crowley remarked.

Aziraphale smiled down at him. “Poor fox.”

“You do love to support the dashing, red-haired villain of the piece, don’t you.”

“Watch it, or I’ll decide to stop.”

“No thank you.”

“Right, well, Amphitryon tried for days to track down the wily fox, but he could never catch him. He tried ambushing him, but the fox always skipped away. He laid traps, but the fox always seemed to know where they were, and danced around them with a cunning grin. Eventually, he tried attacking the fox directly, first with a bow and arrow – but even though he was an excellent shot, not a single arrow came close. Then, he tried with his throwing knives, and when the same thing happened he even went after him with his sword, which probably looked pretty daft.”

“Are you sure the fox isn’t the hero of the story?”

“Eventually, Amphitryon realised that he himself would never be able to catch this sacred fox, and so he travelled for three days and three nights until he found the magical dog Laelaps. She was a beautiful hound, that Zeus had given to Europa as a courting gift, although other people said that she was originally a hunting dog of Artemis, gifted to humans to help them. It doesn’t really matter which version of it is the truth, if either of them even are.”

“Way to sell the story, Aziraphale.”

The angel’s fingers carded through his hair, messing it up even more than it already was.

“What did the dog look like then?” Crowley asked, prompting Aziraphale to carry on.

“Oh, yes. So, she was a hound of mighty strength and size, with a long, curling tail and inquisitive eyes. Her fur was white and gold, and she too had been blessed by the gods – she was destined to catch everything that she chased.”

Crowley reached up, and ran his hand through Aziraphale’s own white-and-gold hair. “Was this dog also fussy? Liked reading and fine dining too much? Had an annoying habit of leaving his tea on the arm of his sofa all the time and then went around begging demon’s with hot hands to heat it back up for it again?”

“Shush. She was just a beautiful, divine hound who was set on the fox, and should have caught it, because she was meant to catch everything she chased.”

“Oh angel,” Crowley remarked. “Stop talking dirty.”

Aziraphale pulled gently on the end of Crowley’s nose. “The fox and the hound chased each other, around and a around, never able to stop, for though the hound was destined to catch everything she chased, the fox was destined never to be caught. Zeus watched this inevitable contradiction from heaven, wondering what he was supposed to do, for though he was not supposed to intervene in such matters he did not want the two beautiful beasts to run in such frustration until the end of their days.”

“Eeesh, not a fate I would enjoy.”

“No.” Aziraphale said, with a small smile. “Zeus knew that if he did not do something the two of them would spend centuries following each other around the world, never able to leave each other alone, but never able to reach a conclusion.”

“Hmm,” Crowley replied. Centuries of running, of finding each other in back alleys and bus stops and dark corners, never quite able to touch and rest and simply be, from city to city and country to country, only ever just managing to stay ahead of everything else that was after them, but never quite able to pull apart, to stop themselves from drawing close to each other. He supposed he was dashing enough to be a fox.

“Eventually, Zeus decided what to do. He looked down at the two beautiful creatures and sent out his power, reaching out to them until they froze in place, and both turned their eyes to the skies. Then, with a thunderbolt of power, Zeus turned them both to stone.”

“Wait, what?” the demon sat up, swivelling to stare at the angel. “Aziraphale, that’s an awful story. What the actual hell? Was that supposed to be comforting? What, you couldn’t think of a story where a kitten got murdered instead?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes at him, and reached out, cupping Crowley’s face with his own warm, soft hands. There was a hardness to Crowley’s face, cruel planes of bone beneath thin skin that belayed the kindness underneath. Crowley sagged a little under his touch, as he always did when Aziraphale moved with slow surety, and after a moment allowed himself to be manhandled back down, his head back on Aziraphale’s lap, facing the skies above them.

“Once they were turned to stone, Zeus took the two of them and turned them into stars to honour their strength and resilience.” He reached his arm up, finger following the sky until he found Orion, another cruel tale full of grief and beauty as so many of the tales he had learned over the century were. “And there they still are, to this day. Do you see them both? There is Laelaps – we call her Canis Major today, right next to Orion. And there is her fox, just above her – they call her Canis Minor now, but we can’t blame them for that – there isn’t all that much difference between a fox and a dog, not once you break them down into stardust. Not much between an angel and demon too, when it comes to it.”

“Do you ever wonder what stories the humans will make up about the stars in the future?” Crowley whispered. “Or do you think they are done with all that? Sometimes I wonder if the days of tales of wonder are over, if there is any of it left.”

“I think there is,” Aziraphale said. “There is always room for more storytelling.”

“Well, of course you think that,” Crowley remarked. “You run a bookshop.”

Aziraphale snorted a quiet laugh. Somewhere nearby an owl took flight, making a low and mournful cry. He thought he could see it for a moment, a flash of white against the unbroken darkness of the night.

“Come on then, you daft old thing,” he said, stirring. “Let’s get you inside before you freeze and I have to start a fire without your help to thaw you out.”

“You’d set the whole cottage on fire without me,” the demon mumbled as he rolled over, off Aziraphale’s lap, getting to his feet with a lot more speed than he had displayed coming out of the house. He held out a hand for Aziraphale, and he took it, letting Crowley pull him to his feet.

Crowley kissed him then, still with blankets wrapped around him, his hair wild from where Aziraphale had been running his fingers through it. Crowley’s kisses were all hesitance even now, slow and unsure and gentle, the hard lines of his face pressed against Aziraphale’s nose and chin familiar and welcome.

A warm hand found Aziraphale’s neck, fingertips slightly too hot as they curled in behind his ear.

“I do love you,” Aziraphale whispered, so quiet and close that not even the whispering breeze would have been able to tell them apart.

“And I you,” Crowley replied. “But if you don’t take me inside and tuck me into a warm bed immediately then I’m turning back into a snake and never talking to you again.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that,” Aziraphale said, placing a hand against Crowley’s chest, feeling that heartbeat again. “Who would warm my tea up for me?”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all enjoyed. Let me know what you think, and come hit me up on [ tumblr ](https://northerntrash.tumblr.com), where you can find links to my edits, ko-fi and other stuff.


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